Page 86 - An Evening with Maxwell's Daemons

The Wind God’s Last Altar

be portrayed as a lunatic to be driven from the village without
further ado. It all depends on whether or not you want this event to
be revolutionary or just a bump in the road.”
“Why can’t we escape repackaging stories embedded in our own
religious history?” Hydrargyrum Diggers complained. “Maybe we’ve
exhausted the possibilities and have no choice but to run variations
forever. Okay: here’s one. The young lad actually respects the
priests, perhaps even aspires to their ranks. So after seeing the
blades turn late at night he sneaks out to imitate the holy rituals. But
he doesn’t understand the injunction against keeping clear of the
door. He finds a rock to fit his hand, climbs up the stairs and bangs
on the keypad. It’s the last straw for whatever corroded springs and
latches were holding the door closed. It swings open. The boy takes
it as an invitation and enters. Seeing the maintenance ladder, he
decides to ascend: maybe he will meet the wind god in person.
Won’t that be a story to tell! Up he goes, manifesting in miniature
the ancient hubris of Babel. He gets to the top, enjoys the view and
a few minutes of exultation and exaltation, and then the wind god
blows him off the platform to crash and die. That was the meaning
of the gust he had seen: a stiff breeze was on the way. Finis.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Rutger Schlager. “I think you had the right
idea in the first place. Just set it up right with the kid. He violates
the taboo, gets as far as the base of the ladder and is grabbed by the
dozing guardians of the sacred site who were caught napping at
first. Combine that with the sacrifice in a big climax—have the
interloper tied down on a slab ready for beheading, Hollywood-
style, and just as the axe is about to fall, the tower falls instead. The
opened door was all it took to remove the last impediment to
gravity having the final word. It crashes down, wiping out the
priesthood but sparing the boy. The natives discover, in a way that
draws for the reader the parallel to their own predicament: the false
god of technology must not be worshipped because it will betray
you. Now that ought to cover it—right?”
“Right,” replied Brad Razeberry, shaking his head.

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